Salvation
by The Demon's Song
Summary: In a world where the rebounded killing curse did not destroy Voldemort, Harry disappeared at age one.  Sixteen years later, he is found again.  Only...he's not exactly what they expected.  My take on a realistic Dark!Harry, AU, Harry/Draco.


**(Long) Author's note: I know my readers will tell me not to start any new stories before I finish my old ones. This, however, is a _very _old story—the planning for it started over four years ago, and it's been rewritten in various forms ever since. Also, I am well aware that two of the main characters of this are original characters, and I know that isn't some readers' cup of tea. I can justify myself by saying that almost nothing in this story is what it appears to be at first glance, the original characters most of all. :)**

**Warnings: This story will contain eventual slash, meaning a male/male relationship, between Harry and Draco. Consider yourselves warned. Also, warnings for violence and a _serious _AU of the Harry Potter books. I should warn readers that this isn't going to be the typical Harry-goes-dark-and-hates-everybody story; if that's what you're looking for, I'm sorry, but I don't plan to take this story in that direction. This is my attempt to write a realistic account of what would happen if Voldemort hadn't died when Harry was a baby, and if Harry had not gone to Hogwarts from age eleven. That said, I hope any readers will enjoy. :)**

**Disclaimer: I definitely do not own Harry Potter—never have and never will, sadly. If anyone tries to sue me for this fanfiction, it will earn them a snow globe and a few old books, so please spare yourselves the waste of time. :P I write this out once per series; consider me disclaimed.**

A boy, very teenaged, lay sprawled across a bed of average size, with his eyes firmly transfixed on the ceiling. The ceiling in and of itself was not particularly interesting, nor was the room it capped—the walls were a plain, standard off-white, which the ceiling matched; the floor was made of pale, mid-quality wood; the furniture in the room, comprising of a desk, two chairs, a bureau and the bed in question, was all done up in equally pale woods or fabrics. In fact, the only two spots of color in the room were the emerald colored bedspread which covered the neatly made bed, and the boy laying on top of it.

Boy, perhaps, was not the right word. The brown-haired, pale-skinned teenager more easily fit the description of young man, though he was just short enough that the tongue might slip from time to time. Other than his height, he had few other defining characteristics—with his eyes closed, he might be mistaken for being just as average as the room he languished in. Even staring at the ceiling idly, however, his eyes gave off an unmistakeable air of calculation, as though he was adjusted to a sort of wary speculation that had long served him well. There was intelligence in the gaze, too, and hints of what might bloom into mischief, but those things were secondary. Looking at the young man, one would always feel as though one were being dissected, analyzed, and then either summarily dismissed or accepted as having merit. Beyond what lay behind those eyes, there were also the eyes themselves to set the young man apart, as, unlike most, the young man bore eyes of two very different colors: one a peculiarly bright, dark green that seemed almost to glow, and the other a pale, piercing blue. The green eye was ringed by blue ink, the wiry lines of which formed a tattoo that could, at the right angle, be mistaken for a dragon. The young man's fingers, as he contemplated either the ceiling or something his mind was projecting upon it, traced this tattoo with lazy familiarity.

His fingers twitched once, and then he was off the bed, launching himself defensively to his feet and spinning to face the door of his room. What threat he anticipated, perhaps even he did not know. The sound which had provoked him was a light knock of fingers on the wood of his door, followed by the sound of parchment sliding across the floor. An envelope of creamy white, sealed with blood-red wax and the stamp of a skull with a leering snake for its tongue, had appeared through the space between his door and the hardwood flooring. The young man shook his head, crossed the room in brisk, efficient steps, and opened the envelope with a sort of reflexive reverence, careful not to mar the wax.

There was a letter inside, unsurprisingly. The teenager coaxed it out of its shell and unfolded it, turning eyes of two different colors upon the words.

_I have need of your brother. Potter will require relocation. Report to me in two hours, and tell your brother to be in my chambers within the next fifteen minutes. Plans have become urgent._

_ LV_

The young man scanned the letter once, twice, and then folded it again and pressed it back into the envelope. Then, with a sigh, he produced a thin, black wand from one of his shirt's dark sleeves, tapped it to the parchment, and muttered, "_Incendio." _A flame burst into life at the corner of the parchment, feeding quickly, until the parchment was little more than drifting ash. The young man extinguished the flame before it could burn his hand, replaced the wand in its position against the inside of his arm, and wearily traced the tattoo once more. "Yes, Da," he told the empty room, before turning on his heel and disappearing entirely.

…

The Death Eaters, as a rule, met only at night. Lucius Malfoy, when asked why, would give the questioner a haughty look and explain that black cloaks could provide cover in the dark of night, and so they met at night for the sake of secrecy; Crabbe and Goyle, Seniors, would grunt and shrug; Bellatrix Lestrange, in her sing-song way, would reply that it _wasn't very bright for little piggies to question their Master, now was it, lamb? _Severus Snape had, once, in the folly of his youth, put the question of why this was the case to Lucius, and received exactly that response; he would never be so stupid as to ask a question of Crabbe and Goyle, nor so suicidal as to inquire of Bellatrix. He was, however, of the personal opinion that the Dark Lord's detestable flare for melodrama was at the heart of it all. Villains are, of course, expected to meet in the dark of night, and so the Death Eaters always had.

Whatever the reason behind it, when Severus Snape Apparated into a clearing on the behest of the burning tattoo on his left arm, it was midnight.

He did not, by any means, Apparate into an empty clearing. Already six people stood in the clearing, and eleven more ought to have been arriving within the next minutes. Severus knew, from the way his arm had flamed more intensely than on most nights, that the Dark Lord had only summoned his Inner Circle to attend him. Of the eighteen of his most faithful, one was a madwoman, one a pompous sycophant, three were obedient idiots, twelve were pompous idiots and obedient sycophants simultaneously, and one, Severus himself, was a spy—this lack of quality, in Severus' mind, reflected poorly on the Dark Lord himself. Of the eighteen, the madwoman, the pompous sycophant, and four of the twelve were already in attendance, clothed in black cloaks and watchful bone-white masks, identities betrayed by mannerisms and speech patterns regardless of their disguises. Severus resisted the urge to sneer at them all and took his place at Lucius Malfoy's left, awaiting the arrival of the rest.

None of those present in the circle spoke, either to each other or to the other similarly cloaked figures who Apparated in one by one. There was no law commanding this beyond unspoken acceptance, though Severus knew the younger recruits tended towards nervous chatter whenever they gathered en masse. Amongst the Inner Circle, however, there was typically more gravity. Each of those standing in that circle, regardless of Severus' personal opinions of their character, had worked their way up through the ranks with no small amount of pain or suffering. None were likely to risk that success for a bit of idle gossip. Even Bellatrix was relatively sedate, resigning herself to rocking back and forth on her heels and humming rather than throwing about her usual half-sung taunts.

Within what must have been fifteen minutes, all eighteen of the figures Severus had expected had indeed arrived, small pops of Apparition accompanying each. Each of them automatically scanned the circle for their master, and, upon not seeing him, moved cautiously to their places in the circle. Even once the ring was complete, however, they stood alone in the clearing for moments, every one waiting impatiently.

"Ah," a voice said, from about twenty feet to Severus' right. With that one word, the entire air of the clearing seemed to change. At once hissed and purred, the cold, relatively high pitched voice which had delivered the simple sound spoke of power almost beyond comprehension. It had been that voice, and the promises inherent in it, that had drawn the teenaged Severus into the Death Eaters' ranks in the first place; even now, nearly twenty years later, the force of it caught at Severus, making him want more than anything to obey its every command, if only to bask in that power for a moment or two. As always, he hated himself for the near intoxication it caused in him, and shook off the effects a moment later. Still, his first instinct was to cast his eyes towards the sound, despite the punishment he might bring upon himself for doing so. Thankfully, the seventeen around him seemed similarly entangled, and so his actions escaped notice. "My servants. I am glad you have been prompt. Matters of great importance have arisen, and you, my most trusted, will be required."

From the shadows of the trees stepped Lord Voldemort, who bore none of the lands or honor that his title would suggest. Whether or not he had earned the name, however, the Dark Lord certainly looked the part. Tall, lean, and sharp, Voldemort was the sort of man who would have towered over all those present even without the height. His hair, brown and wavy, framed the angles of his face rather than softening them, and deepened the natural shadows of his face, lending an added gravity to the man. While the extended use of Dark Magic tended to twist and taint the form of its user, years of the darkest of magics had left the Dark Lord all the beauty of his teenaged years. From the aristocratic face of the Dark Lord, ruby-red eyes with all the clarity of a gem looked out at his followers—in this way the magic had reshaped him, turning blue eyes red, but rather than detracting from the man they merely made him seem impossibly distant and predatory. Age had not touched this man. Voldemort walked outside of time in a way that not even Dumbledore could, as the magics that anchored him there were far too ghastly for the leader of the light to ever consider. Severus did not respect the Dark Lord, but, oh, he did fear him.

Then Severus returned to himself and knelt at once, eyes firmly directed to the grass beneath his knees. It had been stupid that Severus had not noticed the Dark Lord prior to the man's chosen appearance—more than stupid, it might have been fatal. Severus, ever the spy, should have noticed the pervasive darkness of Voldemort's magical aura, if nothing else; the Dark Lord had enough power that he was usually difficult to miss at close distances. That Severus had failed to recognize his presence meant that Severus was getting sloppy, which was alarming, or that Voldemort had learned new tricks, which was terrifying. Slowing his heartbeat, Severus checked his Occlumency shields, preparing himself to lie.

The Dark Lord crossed the clearing, moving between the kneeling bodies of his followers to stand in the center of their circle. This was a gesture, Severus knew, both to enforce Voldemort's own vitality to their group, and to show that he was not afraid to show his back to any of the circle. If that last had been a show of trust, Severus would have called the man a fool, but Severus knew this was not the case. By showing them his seemingly vulnerable figurative underbelly, the Dark Lord reinforced that not even one of his most favored could touch him; Voldemort could crush them all into the dust in moments if they dared mutiny, could annihilate all of them utterly. Arrogant, perhaps, but true, and a truth that Voldemort took no small delight in reminding them of.

Each of the followers crawled forward to kiss the hem of their master's cloak, performing the necessary debasement and muttering the necessary obeisances and words of praise. They moved in order of rank, Bellatrix's sickening adoration being followed by Lucius' spineless brown-nosing, followed by Severus himself. Third of all the Death Eaters, and a spy—the victory of this took a little of the sting out of Severus being forced to sacrifice his pride so. What followed the ritual of this greeting would depend entirely on the mood of the Dark Lord.

This night, it seemed, something had pleased Voldemort greatly. "Rise," he ordered, the command gentler than the norm. "I have news that will at last assure our victory, I feel." Severus dared to look up at the Dark Lord then, though not directly at his eyes—he made sure his gaze sloped just below Voldemort's chin, allowing Severus a peripheral view of the Dark Lord's face without looking straight at him in a manner that could be construed as a challenge. Indeed, there was something like glee which could be read across Voldemort's features. "First, though most of you have been kept in ignorance of this fact, I have had in my possession a weapon for some time now. In the right hands, this weapon will not only destroy our foes but also demoralize them beyond hope of recovery. My hands are those right hands, and now is the time. At long last the weapon is ready to be wielded. Before us, Dumbledore and his army of pathetic muggle-loving blood traitors will crumple, and the reign of the pure will at last be instituted." This was no empty promise. The conviction in the Dark Lord's voice was unmistakeable. In Voldemort's true followers, Severus could see a fervor stirring, as all their dreams promised to come true at once. In Severus himself, a panic rose and ate away at any warmth that Severus had ever felt. Details, he wanted to cry out, details! Something which he could tell Dumbledore in the hopes of ending whatever this unknown threat might be. Anything to avoid the future the Dark Lord promised would now be upon them. But the details did not come. "I bring word of our victory, my servants. It is only a matter of time, now."

Lucius Malfoy wanted to cry out, but tucked the urge behind layers of engrained manners, Severus could see that much; the man was likely smiling the smile of the glorious damned behind the protecting mask he wore, which even seemed to smirk itself. Bellatrix laughed like a chiming of bells, reminding Severus of a time when she had been in possession of her beauty still, if not her sanity. She spun once in a graceful circle, threw her mask from her face, raised her arms to the moon above and howled like a wolf, not even seeming to mind when the Dark Lord subdued her with a pleasantly spoken, "_Crucio." _She shuddered through the pain with a triumphant grin and hugged her arms about herself as though the curse was the cherished embrace of a lover. When it was over she dropped to the ground, pressed a kiss to the white lips of her mask, and slung it back upon her smiling face.

"I cannot promise," Voldemort said, as though no interruption had occurred, "when I will make use of this weapon. Soon. But only when I deem it wise. Even you, my dearest servants, will not see the blow coming before I let it fall. You will not, however, mistake it once it has." The Dark Lord met Severus' eyes and held that gaze. Severus felt, but only just, Voldemort's mind burrow inside, seeking out Severus' emotions, his secrets. He curled the clenching fear up inside himself and overlapped two memories—the simple joy of completing a complex potion, and the speech he had just heard—until he was sure that Voldemort would see only his own words reflected back at him in Severus' mind, and feel only enthusiasm with a fading tinge of rapture. Satisfied, the Dark Lord retreated. Severus wanted very much to be sick across the grass, and was glad of the mask's shield for perhaps the first time.

"But, my servants, there is more." These words, Voldemort spoke with the air of a patient father gifting his children with an extra sweet. "With such success upon us, I feel it time to reveal another of my weapons. Six months hence, before a gathering of all my loyal Death Eaters, I will finally reveal my heir."

Severus had thought he could feel no worse. He had been a fool.

"I know many of my Death Eaters—even many of you, whom I call my Inner Circle—believed I would never chose an heir. The truth of the matter is that I have long since chosen, and groomed, the only individual I would ever trust to rule in my stead. He is now prepared. You shall obey him as you obey me. After my death, should you live so long as to see the day, he shall be your only Lord."

A faint whine escaped Lucius Malfoy's throat at this—Lucius, who had always aspired to ascension after his master's death, who had always had ambitions far beyond what he could ever fulfill. "_Crucio," _the Dark Lord said again, voice still calm. If Severus had not known that the Pain Curse could not be cast without a true wish for its recipient to suffer, he might have said that Voldemort cared little about Malfoy's reaction. Unlike Bellatrix, Lucius Malfoy did not suffer with grace. He fell upon the ground and writhed, contorting himself with whimpers of agony, his impeccably clean hair tangling in the dirt. In suffering, Lucius Malfoy revealed himself always for the worm he was, behind the stiff demeanor and aristocratic speech. Severus had never been able to bring himself to summon great sympathy for the man.

"_Lucius," _Voldemort intoned as he ended the curse, stretching the 'c' out in a hiss which would do his absent familiar proud. "You disappoint me. Did you truly believe I would leave my rule to be contested after my death? Our regime would topple if I did so, and would that not be counter productive?" Bellatrix, still on her knees, did a decent imitation of Lucius flopping like a fish; the Dark Lord did not punish her. Lucius Malfoy let out one final, half-stifled moan and pushed himself weakly from the ground with shaking arms. Severus, who had felt the bite of the curse often enough to know its effects, knew that while the Crucio was unpleasant, Lucius had not been held under it long enough to be quite so unsteady. As always, the Malfoy dramatics shone through. "This is why I announced the existence of my heir to you now, rather than revealing the truth to you when I revealed it to the remainder of my servants. I should hate to see even such a small show of defiance in two months." The Dark Lord did not bother to ask if he was understood; he never did. They understood, surely enough. Defiance now was pain, and would later be death. "My heir shall be obeyed," Voldemort repeated, meeting Lucius Malfoy's eyes. He did not look away until the Malfoy Lord managed a nod of acceptance.

Besides the two horrifying declarations which had come in rapid succession, the meeting was Death Eater business as usual. Each of the Inner Circle reported their recent deeds on behalf of the cause to the Dark Lord, who responded either with a few scant words of praise by way of approval or, in disapproval, a hissing incantation of, "_Crucio!" _Severus could distantly remember a time when he had lived so deeply in anticipation of those few words that even the pain had not mattered—from time to time, he would have gleaned some helpful piece of information or discovered a way to improve one potion or another, and Voldemort would turn that appraising gaze upon him and say two or three words. "Excellent, Severus," and then every pain curse he had ever suffered had seemed justified, just so. Those times were now, thankfully, long past, but even remembering them caused Severus to feel utterly _repulsed _by what he had been. What a fool his youth had made him...

And so Severus intoned, mechanically, the information Albus Dumbledore had cleared him to reveal, truths and lies intertwined so carefully that Severus himself could never take the fall for a false lead. Ordinarily, Severus took some small enjoyment out of this recitation. It was never enough to make up for the skull which stained the skin of his left arm, or the blood on his hands, but still there was some happiness to be found in the dance of falsehoods Severus presented the Dark Lord. Each and every one of those lies meant, after all, that Voldemort was only mortal, only human, for all that he presented himself as more—if Severus could lie to him, then the Dark Lord was fallible, and there was hope. As long as Severus survived, there would be hope.

On this night, though, the usual satisfaction was gone in its entirety, and seemed to have taken the hope with it. Severus said what was required of him and fell silent, wishing deeply for a tumbler of scotch and the comfort of his rooms. Even then, though, he listened to what his supposed comrades said, cataloging anything of importance. The world would always turn, whether or not Severus sulked, and it would not do to forget that he was a spy. He remembered the names of those his enemies had killed and resolved that on the off chance he survived the upcoming war, he would make a memorial to the dead; not for any credit, but rather in the dead of the night, as a gesture of respect. If he did not survive, perhaps someone else would see fit to make one and inscribe his name on it, alongside all those whose deaths he had been unable to prevent. But he was being maudlin—Severus kept his face stony behind the mask and consoled himself with the thought of his sanctuary inside Hogwarts Castle. The world would turn, and so long as Severus lived he would simply have to turn with it.

So tired was he that Severus almost did not hear the Dark Lord's dismissal. It was a small mistake, true, but one that Severus could not afford to permit himself. He had already learned that the fight would escalate, and as such his position on the inside of the Dark Lord's ranks would be more necessary than ever. He could not allow any error on his part to jeopardize that position now.

And he did not. When Voldemort's signal came, Severus bowed just as deeply as any of the others in the circle with him, and maintained his bow just as carefully as the others, until the telling crack of a Disapparition informed them that the Dark Lord had left their presence.

"Goodnight!" Bellatrix cried out, and was gone before Severus had even finished straightening from his bow. The next to go was Lucius Malfoy, with Crabbe and Goyle following in quick succession—the alliance between those three families had always had a disturbing tinge of servitude towards the Malfoys. Severus waited, as was his custom, until all the other Death Eaters had completed their own Disapparitions, before turning on his heel and carrying through with his own.

That night, Severus was thinking of Hogsmeade, where he would be Apparating to, and thinking that he would have time for a stiff drink in the Three Broomsticks before he retired for the night, if he was quick about it. He was thinking of the allure of his own bed, and the frankly blissful idea of several hours of uninterrupted sleep. He was thinking, first and foremost, of how he would tell Dumbledore what he had learned that night, given that so much of what he had heard had been deliberately vague. He was, in short, distracted, and understandably so.

It was due to this distraction that he would not feel the hand catch at his arm until he had already begun his Disapparition, and, by then, it was too late.

…

He had never enjoyed being pulled along on an Apparition unannounced. It was twice as nauseating that way as it was done deliberately—something about not being consciously included in the spell needed to Apparate made it immensely uncomfortable. The whole process was always disorienting and awful, and he never went through it if he did not absolutely have to.

Tonight, unfortunately, there was no question of the necessity of his actions.

They came back to themselves just outside the limits of Hogsmeade, still far enough away that their black robes would not be commented on, but close enough that there would not be much of a walk once the customary clothing of a Death Eater had been discarded. He could immediately tell that this was an Apparition that had been practiced many times, likely to the point that it was mostly routine by this time. That alone told him that Severus Snape was a man of habit.

The way that Snape's wand had immediately centered itself between his eyes on their landing told him even more.

"Wait," he said, as quickly as he could. He didn't doubt Snape would attack first and question him later, when there was privacy and Veritaserum to be had, and he could not afford that tonight. If he was absent for that long, it would be noticed, and that would not go well for anyone involved. "Wait, please, I'm not your enemy."

"Oh?" Snape asked, his eyes dark and distinct even under the white material of his mask. The man's voice was low and smooth, and entirely too distrustful. "I suppose you forced yourself into my Apparition to impart friendly advice, then?"

He tried to resist the urge to shift, knowing it would be misunderstood as the start of an attack. "Well, yes, actually," he said. "For a given definition of friendly, and of advice." Slowly, keeping his movements clearly visible, he raised one hand and removed the white mask that lay across his own face.

He could see the moment that Snape took in the mismatched color of his eyes—the older man didn't recoil, like some did, but his eyes did narrow in speculation. "You don't know my face," he said, and hoped all the while that his words were actually true, "but I know yours, Severus Snape. And I know that you're not precisely what the Dark Lord thinks you are. _Protego_!" This last he snapped to shield himself from the _Immobulus _Snape had immediately sent his way; he was quietly thankful that he had taken the time to learn that spell wandlessly. "Please, Snape! Listen, I'm not accusing you of anything—_Protego_!" The second spell knocked him backwards despite his spell, nearly sending him over onto his back. "I need your help!" he shouted, aware his voice was too loud and unable to stop it. He was so stupid—he should have brought his wand, gestures of good faith be damned, he had no doubts that Snape could kill him if he tried hard enough. Wandless shielding wouldn't be good enough, not if the older man went on a serious offensive.

Instead the forest fell silent, and Snape lowered his wand the barest fraction of an inch. It was more than he could have hoped for. "My help?" Snape said, and not a trace of the intrigue that had flashed in his eyes was present within that voice. This man was very, very good at what he did.

"Yes," he answered, and swallowed. "There's a person I need to protect. I can't let him get hurt, you understand, but I can't protect him either, if things go the way they are."

"And so you will pledge yourself to the Light and beg Dumbledore's mercy if that person is spared?" Snape sneered, and the wand raised again. "Spare me. Do you have any idea how often incompetent brats like you have used that sort of a story to try and trick me into revealing some presumed true alliance to Dumbledore?"

"No!" he said quickly, and then, again, adamantly, "no. No, I won't pledge myself to the Light, because I don't think the Dark Lord's cause is wrong, and I could care less about Dumbledore. I just need your help, is all. I can give you something you want badly, if you help me, and then we're done. Just your help."

Snape asked, "Something I want?"

"Something you need, actually," he said. "I'll need your oath, first. If I tell you, you have to give me a Wizarding Oath that you'll help me to protect him. We'll word it so that if my information isn't useful, it won't be binding, even. I just need your help." He watched Snape's impassive face, the utter lack of expression that conveyed itself even through the mask, and found himself admitting, "I can't protect him alone. Please, help us."

"Who is this individual you are so determined to protect?" Snape asked, and he smiled weakly under the hood of his robe and hoped the other man would not see it, because the older man was going to do it. He would swear, and things might turn out alright after all.

"My brother," he said, and that was the end of it.

It took only a few minutes for them to agree on an Oath. In the end, Snape's vocalization of the chosen words, which were neither too binding for Snape's taste nor too open-ended for his own, took maybe thirty seconds to complete. The whole thing was so stupidly easy that he almost wanted to sob with the relief of it.

"Tell me, then," Snape said, when it was done.

He opened his mouth, stole a breath, and, against his own better judgment, spoke.

…

It was hardly polite, or expected, to throw Dumbledore's office door open quite so forcefully, but Severus found himself doing just that nevertheless.

Some of the pictures which adorned the walls of the Headmaster's office were actually jostled by the force of the door opening—Severus knew this because he entered the office in the aftermath, with many of the portraits complaining loudly and all the rest gracing him with deeply disapproving glances. At that particular moment, Severus did not care about the irritated portraits in the slightest. He had not felt so much like a truculent teenager since he had last actually been one, but this certainly qualified; he felt by turns something approaching hope and the heaviness of the despair which had weighed on him for sixteen years, as it had weighed on them all.

"Severus, my boy," Dumbledore started, his blue eyes wide behind half-moon spectacles, and it was only then that it occurred to Severus what a picture he must make. He had physically run from Hogsmeade to this office, uncaring of what townspeople or students his mad dash displaced; he had barely stayed to watch the Death Eater boy tug out a Portkey in the form of a pen and disappear. Doubtlessly, Severus was sweating and disheveled from his run—that fact, coupled with his frankly dramatic arrival, had likely given Dumbledore fair cause to look so concerned.

However, Severus had more important things to speak of that night. "Dumbledore," he interrupted, placing his palms flat on the Headmaster's desk and meeting Dumbledore's eyes, "I was approached tonight with new information." Rather than describing the incident, he simply called the memory to mind and opened his shields to Dumbledore, allowing the elder wizard to slip into his mind and view the meeting himself. It was a rare permission to be granted, and Dumbledore took it immediately.

"Oh," Dumbledore said, when the memory was done, and he had retreated from Severus' mind. "My dear boy. I must congratulate you—this is everything we could have hoped for. The Order will need to be called immediately." Dumbledore stood, eyes bright, and Severus was suddenly reminded that this was the wizard who had defeated Grindelwald, and not simply a barmy old man who liked to offer lemon drops incessantly—he remembered, as Dumbledore gained something to hope for, just why he had abandoned his loyalty to the Dark Lord and sworn his loyalty to the Light. "To think," Dumbledore said, so softly that it might have been to himself, "that after sixteen years, we have finally found Harry Potter!"

**This is the end of the first chapter of Salvation. If you got this far, please take a second and leave me a review. Knowing what my readers think helps to improve my writing, and allows me to make my stories more enjoyable for you guys in the future. Plus, reviews make my day. :)**

**Fair warning: This story is going to be updated _very _sporadically. While I have the entire thing plotted out—have had it plotted out for years, actually—I am rarely struck with the inspiration I need to write it. On top of that, I currently have two stories on this site (Lares, and I'll Know My Name) which take priority in my writing. When I can update this story, I will. :)**


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